


one of those nights / candlelight

by wantonwasting



Category: DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wantonwasting/pseuds/wantonwasting
Summary: Some nights, Mink would stir from the cosy pull of sleep, his bones tingling with restlessness that permeated through his flesh to his skin and pulled him out into the night. Wandering eased the strain of it; the familiar weight of his footfalls recalling how long he had wandered before he had finally found a safe place to rest.





	one of those nights / candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: again with the late night pretentious prose, sorry.

Some nights, Mink would stir from the cosy pull of sleep, his bones tingling with restlessness that permeated through his flesh to his skin and pulled him out into the night. Wandering eased the strain of it; the familiar weight of his footfalls recalling how long he had wandered before he had finally found a safe place to rest.

But some nights it was not the wandering he longed for, but the returning; crossing the liminal space, his feet falling light over the threshold, and being welcomed into sanctuary by the feeling of not being alone.

It was a novel feeling, even now, Mink thought, as he shrugged out of his coat and returned it to the hook where it belonged. His shoes he left with the others at door – old habits brought new habits, and he was already settling in to the comfort of compromise. Mink walked through the house, silent from familiarity with how the floorboards creaked and settled. The darkness of the interior was thicker than outside, and with a deft flick of a match, he lit a candle.

He liked candlelight; the softness, the glow, the way it brought warmth through the wood of the walls. But Mink no longer feared fire – his scars were slowly healing, smoothed by warm fingers and soft lips. Koujaku was like a candle in that regard; bright even as he burned himself up, a guiding light with the ability to consume itself until complete obliteration.

But tonight as he slept in Mink’s bed, wrapped in his blankets, the soft sighs of his breathing was more like the smoke he exhaled than the flame of the candle. The planes of his face, picked out by the light of the moon from the window were stark and pale, and not for the first time, Mink thought that Koujaku was misrepresented by the moonlight. He was not porcelain, distorted and fragile and cold to the touch. He did not wax and wane, like the moon. In all things he was constant – his affection, freely given, never ebbed; his attention, easily captured, rarely strayed. He was the break of the sun through the steel grey clouds. The first leaves of autumn, still firm with vitality, preening their plumage in the ragged wind.

He was life and passion.

He was fire.

And for now, he was deeply asleep. An early riser but a blissfully heavy sleeper, he did not stir as the mattress dipped under Mink’s weight. His breathing was steady as Mink tugged enough of the blankets free to share between them. But when Mink brushed his lips over the arch of his temple he stirred, a little, and murmured something that was more a mess of syllables than discernible words.

Koujaku likely never knew of Mink’s late night walks. No matter how colds his hands when he returned or how damp his hair, he never flinched or shied away. He was steady, like the light of the sun but infinitely closer, infinitely more tangible and thus infinitely warmer.

And at times, like anything that burned, he was wild and out of control. But Mink no longer feared fire. He could reach his hands through the flame and smother the outbursts back down. He knew his own strengths; he could calm with soft, repetitive circles traced into hands or backs, or he could restrain with heavy arms and unyielding hands around wrists or a throat. And when the storm had been weathered, he could brush away the rain that fell from repentant red eyes and kiss away the dark clouds that lingered in tight-knit brows until the sun was strong again.

Mink pressed closer, Koujaku’s body heat sparking his own to life. From his fingertips to his toes, his skeleton to the very surface of his skin, he was wrapped in warmth, so much that he felt he would such heat would never permeate through his body again. But he knew he would. Until the sun finally set beyond the distant mountains, he would be warm.

Because Koujaku was fire; he could burn but he could cleanse. He could cause pain but he could facilitate healing. He was purified rubble, the liminal space and the sanctuary beyond. He was the sun in the sky and he was stars beyond that in the far-flung distance where they never stopped shining.

He was life and passion.

He was home.


End file.
